Below is a flash version of the anthology from my memoir class at UW. You may recognize the name of one of the authors. Click to set custom HTML And here's an "oldie but goodie" that I thought I'd throw in for comic relief.
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Well, I thought it would be a good time to post something new
since I have recently been falsely diagnosed with PTSD and bipolar disorder. It really sent me into a fucking depression for a few days there. I was going to sign up for disability and start collecting my checks. I felt like a fucking crazy person. Not that people can’t function with those disorders, but damn, I can barely function as it is, so that was like way too much for me to handle. Plus, this so-called psychiatrist, who turns out to be nothing more than an ARNP, prescribed me gabapentin, which made me fucking insane for a few weeks, but then, after I complained about the gabapentin, she wanted to put me on Lamectyl, one of the two main drugs for bipolar disorder! And I am NOT bipolar! I might be a nut—I might pull out my hair, chew on my lips and fingers, and have an immense capacity for self-loathing, but I assure you, I am not bipolar. I should be so lucky as to enjoy manic episodes of overwhelming self-esteem and delusions of grandeur. No, lucky me, I suffer from pure MD….Major Depression. Yes, that’s right, it’s the depression part of bipolar without the fun part (the part that keeps people from wanting to take their meds). Yeah, woohoo, yay, me! I have regular-ass old depression. Old school, writer shit. Typical Jew shit. Go figure, big fucking surprise. So I can’t get a real job, or a real life, I’m stuck here in my dad’s house, a thirty-one year-old chick, with a less than part-time job, and a desire to become a “published author” one day, when I’m the only one (and occasionally my therapist) who reads my blog. I drank nearly an entire bottle of wine and then silently snuck into my dad’s bathroom and found a bottle of benzos from 1996. Will they still work? I took four. We’ll see. I also binged on peanut butter and various sugary substances for the first time in a long time. I’ve been doing good, in fact, I weighed myself today and I was down to 115.6, the lowest weight I have been in over a year. But I probably sabotaged that tonight since I ate almost 3000 calories in one sitting just a little while ago. I am such an idiot some times. Do I want to sabotage myself? I don’t know, maybe. My ex called me a few days ago for the first time in months. I didn’t even know he had my phone number. It pissed me off. I told him to never call me again and I hung up on him. But still, it fucked me up. I told him, “Well, I hope YOU feel better, because I don’t. You think you can just call me up and apologize and tell me about your life and whatever, and I’m gonna be OK with that. Well, I’m not. I was fine already and I planned to never talk to you again. So I hope YOU feel better, because I don’t. I feel worse. I’m gonna go now. Don’t ever call me again.” And then I hung up. It felt scary to officially and finally take my power back, but it felt good, too. He knew I meant it. He didn’t call again. That was it—he knew I was serious. He knew I meant it when I said “never call me again.” And he knew I meant it because it’s the truth. I never for the rest of my life have any need or desire to talk to that asshole ever again. He’s put me and HAM and our relationship through hell and he has absolutely nothing to offer. I don’t need him to write my memoir. All I need is MY story, MY memories—not his. If he wants to write a memoir, then he can go right ahead, but this one is mine and I know enough about him and the rest of the losers of my past to write my story, I want to call is something like, “My Life Through You”, or “Chameleon: The Story of the Girl Who Changed for Him”, or “UFO: Unidentified Female Object”. Maybe the last one is best. I’d like to keep my misery lighthearted. Seriously, though, if you can’t laugh at your own life, you have no business laughing at anyone else. And, sorry, but that just won’t work for me. I need to laugh at all of us—we’re all fools. Even the smart ones. |